“Why, he came in here and swiped a composition of mine off the table and read it to the fellows and had a laugh on me, but that was days ago and I don’t care anything about it now, sir. If he’d just stop having these—these hallucinations of his——”
“Hallucinations, eh?” Mr. Mundy repressed a smile. “I wonder.” He sauntered to the communicating door and studied it attentively. He even lifted the large and brilliant calendar and looked behind it, and Jonesie, watching politely and imperturbably, blinked twice. Then Mr. Mundy gazed at the place where the knob should have been.
“Where’s the knob?”
“I don’t know, sir. It’s been gone a long while.”
“Hm.” The instructor seemed about to ask a second question, but changed his mind. Instead, he threw his weight against the door. It didn’t even creak. He turned to Jonesie.
“When was the last time you were in Cummings’s room?” he asked suddenly.
“About nine weeks ago, sir. It was before Christmas recess.”
“That’s the absolute truth, Jones?”
“Oh, yes, sir!” Jonesie looked slightly hurt.
“Very well. That’s all. If I were you I’d—ahem—I’d find that knob, Jones. Or one like it.”